


Somebody Who Outdrew You

by nagi_schwarz



Series: Traveling Man [30]
Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1, The Night Shift (TV 2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 14:12:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10878447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: Set in the latter half of Season 2 of The Night Shift. Bit of an AU from there till post-season 2 (still haven't seen Season 3). Written for the fic_promptly prompt: "Any, Any, On the rebound." After Rick leaves Drew, Drew rebounds with a bunch of random hook-ups. Drew takes a break from hooking up and meets Evan.





	Somebody Who Outdrew You

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to Brumeier for her beta and encouragement and endlessly supply of tissues for Evan Lorne.
> 
> Title from Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah (KD Lang version).

Drew knew he was rebounding pretty hard, because dammit, he came out for Rick, he took a huge step, and Rick was just taking all his frustrations out on Drew. Drew knew he didn’t get it, didn’t know what it was like to lose a limb, but he tried and tried to be a good support, a good partner, and now Rick was gone.

So screw it. Drew was gonna go out and get drunk and get laid and try to forget the horror of his life and his job in someone else’s kisses and skin, in someone else’s bed and someone else’s body. Sleeping with someone else’s boyfriend had been an incredibly poor choice, yes, but Drew was still in a tailspin.

But he didn’t go out to the gay clubs on his next night off. Instead he went to a sports bar where he knew MMA fights were being played. He could have gone to one of his training buddies’ places to watch the fights with friends, with beer and homemade snacks, but he didn’t feel like putting on a front for them or anyone else.

He was pretty damn miserable, and he wanted to drink booze and watch people hit each other.

He found a space at the end of the bar with a good angle toward the TV, surrendered his credit card for a tab, and started with a beer. The bar wasn’t too crowded, and the bartender seemed to recognize that Drew was there more for the fights than the crowd, so he left Drew alone for the most part, drifted over once every half hour or so to make sure Drew was a satisfied customer.

The prelim fights had finished and the main card was just beginning when a man approached Drew.

“This seat taken?” The man gestured to the barstool beside Drew’s.

The bar wasn’t too crowded, but the man choosing the stool beside Drew’s wasn’t an obvious come-on either. It was Texas. Outside of gay bars and clubs, there were no obvious come-ons to be had. Ever.

“All yours,” Drew said.

The man smiled, and wow, he had dimples. “Thanks.” He hopped up onto the stool - he was definitely shorter than Drew - and settled in, flagged down the bartender. He asked for a Molson’s, offered up a chagrined smile when the bartender asked if he was Canadian, and settled in to watch the fights.

Drew studied him between rounds. He was almost like the antithesis of Rick - short, stocky, with broad features. But he had piercing blue eyes and dark hair. He was about ten years older than Drew at a guess, and he was attractive, wearing a leather jacket, a t-shirt, and nice-fitting jeans. Drew dared to sneak a glance under cover of taking his first sip of a good, dark guinness, and the guy had a nice ass.

But no, this was Texas, and this wasn’t a safe space for a guy like to Drew to be open about who he preferred in his bed and in his heart.

Nope, no heart talk, not tonight.

Just the fights.

Drew really got into the fights. The next match-up was unbelievable, a clumsy-looking older man versus a younger man who was pretty damn ripped. The younger man was lighter on his feet, sharper with his strikes, more aggressive. He was a shoo-in for the win.

But then the old man threw in a completely unexpected judo-looking trip and took the younger man down. Drew and half the crowd in the bar groaned, but the guy beside him cheered.

“What, are you insane? No way is that old guy gonna win,” Drew said.

The stranger beside him flashed him a dimpled grin. “Age and treachery before youth and beauty,” he said. “C’mon, old guy! Get him! For the geezer team!”

Drew chuckled into his pint of guinness. “You’re not that old.”

“Old enough in MMA years,” the guy said.

Drew raised his eyebrows. “You fight?”

“Not as much as I did when I was younger. You?”

“Yeah.” Drew left off mention that he trained with a military crowd, because something about the way the guy had said _youth and beauty_ had been a bit pointed. And the younger man in the fight was definitely beautiful.

Also, he was getting his ass handed to him by the older, uglier man.

“That’s cool,” the guy said. “My money’s on the underdog. His thing is judo. Most people aren’t prepared for that kind of judo.”

“You think so? What was your base?”

“Muay Thai. Bit of a traditionalist. Grew up loving watching K-1 fights.” The guy eyed Drew for a moment, then sipped from his bottle of Molson’s.

Drew couldn’t help but stare at the way his lips closed around the mouth of the bottle, but he cut his staring short quickly enough that he didn’t think he’d gotten caught. He was damn good at hiding his preferences.

“Let me guess,” the guy continued. “BJJ?”

“Yeah, on the ground, but shotokan for stand-up.”

“Shotokan, huh? Bringing out the big guns.” The guy flicked a glance at Drew’s biceps, raised his eyebrows, and sipped some more beer. “If you said aikido I’d have to make a Steven Seagal joke, and it would have gotten ugly from there.”

“Didn’t think ugly was an option for you,” Drew said, keeping his voice low, cautious, ready to beat a hasty retreat if he’d read this guy’s signals wrong.

But the guy laughed. “Ha. A fighter with a sense of humor.” He offered a hand. “My name’s Evan.” He didn’t have a typical Texas drawl.

Drew wasn’t much one for stereotypes, but he figured that was a good sign. He shook Evan’s hand. “I’m Drew.”

“Want to put a wager on this fight?” Evan asked.

“I’m not exactly rolling in the dough,” Drew said, “but what do you have in mind?”

“Nothing too horrible,” Evan said. “Loser buys the winner a drink.”

“No, not too horrible at all.” Drew offered his hand first this time. “You’re on.”

Drew ended up buying Evan another Molson’s after the old guy’s judo won out, and he learned that while Evan wasn’t Canadian, one of his colleagues at work was Canadian, and the man had somehow converted his boyfriend over to Molson’s, and since his boyfriend was the boss, now Molson’s was the beer to hand when people wanted some.

“It’s an acquired taste,” Evan said. “Me, I’m not even usually a beer guy. Grew up in California. My thing is wine, but that doesn’t usually fly in sports bars, so.” He shrugged.

They wagered back and forth through the fights, buying drinks for each other, nothing heavy, just more beers or Guinness, and talked. Drew told Evan some about where he was from, his growing up, still carefully avoiding any mention of his military history.

As Evan divulged more details of his childhood, growing up on a hippie commune in the Bay Area, Drew couldn’t help but get his hopes up. Between Evan’s casual mention of his boss’s boyfriend and the way he smiled at Drew, tonight could go a totally different direction than Drew had planned.

After the final fight of the night, for which Drew had to buy Evan another beer, Evan said,

“Hey, I don’t think either of us ought to drive. We could call cabs, or we could go to the coffee place down the street, sober up a bit. What do you say?”

Drew searched Evan’s gaze. Evan met his gaze calmly, smiling, and so Drew said, “Sure. Coffee sounds good.”

As they settled up their tabs and headed out into the bustling night, Drew was nervous that things would get weird between them, without the fights as a topic of conversation, but Evan kept up a steady, casual stream of conversation, asking Drew what kind of food he liked, what kind of music. It was first date getting-to-know-you conversation, but Drew didn’t feel like he was under examination or judgment. Evan was pretty easy-going and perfectly willing to answer questions about himself. He’d gotten his degree in geophysics, but he was a painter by avocation, as his mother had been an art teacher.

They got a table in a secluded corner, ordered a couple of coffees and some pastries to share, and talked. Their conversation drifted back to MMA and martial arts, the development of the sport, how the rules had changed, their favorite fighters and memorable fights they’d seen or been in.

Drew couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such light, easy conversation. He hadn’t had it in a long time, not with Krista or Kenny or anyone at work, and not even with Rick. Evan even made him laugh, doing impressions of the people he worked with, mostly scientists: a Czech man named Radek who sang lullabies to his pigeons; a Japanese woman named Miko who apparently beat down a bunch of larger, stronger men with a cafeteria tray when they got into a brawl; and of course Rodney, the Canadian physicist who was dating Evan’s boss and demanded that the entire crew drink Molson’s like him.

And Drew - he found himself willing to tell Evan things he’d only ever told Rick, about the music he liked, and the first concert he’d ever gone to, and how awful high school prom had been but how amazing graduation had felt.

They had two cups of coffee each. With each bitter mouthful, the warm lassitude of alcohol seeped from Drew’s limbs, and he felt surprisingly alert, calm, clear-headed. And totally okay with his decision to spend the rest of the night with Evan.

So, at the door of the coffee shop, when Evan jammed his hands into his pockets and looked boyishly bashful, asked if Drew would like to come home with him, Drew said yes.

*

Evan lived in a small apartment that was kind of bare. Evan admitted he’d just moved in, wasn’t sure how long he would be staying, was slated to be in Texas for only six months, but possibly longer. The apartment was neat, clean. Evan kicked off his shoes at the door, so Drew did the same. Evan fixed him a glass of water, gave Drew the dime tour - bathroom, spare bedroom, back to the den/kitchen.

Evan had an interesting mix of books on his one bookshelf: graphic novels, history books, linguistics books, physics books, geology books, some engineering books, and of course a slew of art books. Some were biographies, others histories focused on specific art movements, and some were on art techniques.

Drew finished his glass of water while he studied Evan’s small collection of books.

“So,” he said, fiddling with the empty glass. Usually he went to gay clubs or bars and the action started at the venue, spilled over into someone’s car, and then into the bedroom.

Evan ducked his head, blushing. “Yeah. I mean, you’re gorgeous and built like Captain America, but I’m not going to make any assumptions about your experience or preferences. What are you interested in? I’m pretty flexible - preference-wise, as well as physically. Yoga. Um - Netflix and chill? Make out on the couch and see where it goes? Straight to the bedroom for naked times, or do you want me on my knees -?”

The image of Evan on his knees made Drew’s pulse spike. “What if I wanted to be on _my_ knees?”

Evan swallowed hard, blushing brighter. “Obviously I wouldn’t say no to that.”

Drew chuckled softly. “You’re too cute. C’mere.” He beckoned, and Evan stepped closer.

Drew reached out, curled a hand along Evan’s jaw, leaned in, and kissed him.

Evan hummed happily into the kiss, parted his lips. Drew hadn’t thought he had a size thing, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been the tall one in a relationship or hook-up, and crowding Evan up against the wall, pinning him in place was intoxicating. When Drew pulled back from the kiss, Evan had his head tipped back to look up at him, and the line of his throat was tantalizing, so Drew leaned in for a taste.

Evan’s breath hitched, and he reached up, stroked the nape of Drew’s neck. His fingers were warm, rough and callused, just how Drew liked, and he smiled against Evan’s skin. Drew slid his hands down Evan’s chest, tugged his shirt free of his jeans, skimmed his hands along Evan’s belly. His skin was soft but his muscles were firm, and when Drew traced the trail of hair from navel to the fly of Evan’s jeans, Evan laughed breathlessly.

“You ticklish?” Drew asked.

“Apparently.”

Drew really liked knowing things about Evan’s body that none of his past lovers had known. He slid his hands up Evan’s shirt, thumbed one nipple experimentally, and Evan moaned. Nice.

Drew slid hands back down to Evan’s waist, pressed him more firmly against the wall, and sank to his knees.

Evan muttered a curse, a plea for Drew’s mouth, but Drew only paused to nuzzle the swell of his cock behind the fabric of his jeans before he kissed his way up Evan’s torso, pushing his shirt up as he went. Drew tasted each inch of skin as it was revealed, and Evan writhed, but he stayed obediently against the wall, which was another unexpected but ridiculous turn-on. Drew had to ease back up to his feet so he could kiss Evan some more.

He froze when he saw Evan’s dog tags.

Real dog tags, with the rubber silencers on them.

Lorne, Evan B. Serial number. O negative. Agnostic.

What the hell?

“Drew? Did you change your mind?” Evan reached up to tug his shirt down, starting to blush again but not as fetchingly as before, but Drew caught the ball chain in his hand, tugged lightly.

“You didn’t say you were in,” Drew said.

Evan’s gaze turned shadowed. “Is that a problem for you?”

Drew reached under his collar, tugged out his own tags for Evan to see. “Depends. What branch?”

“Air Force. You?”

“Army. Rangers.” Drew swallowed hard. So they weren’t in the same branch of service. “Rank?”

“Light-bird.”

“Oh.” Drew fought back the instinctive need to add sir to the end of that. “I’m a captain.”

Evan took a deep breath. “No ranks here, Drew. Just you and me. If you still want to.”

Drew’s head spun. Did he still want to? “You didn’t take your tags off.”

“Didn’t go out looking to hook up,” Evan said. “You just happened to be attractive and interesting. Besides, without them, I feel like a married man without a wedding ring.”

Drew knew that feeling. He wondered how he hadn’t noticed the signs. Evan’s haircut was regulation, now that Drew thought about it. But he didn’t move like a soldier, like Rick. Granted, he was Air Force. And the whole point of this was that he _wasn’t_ Rick.

“You didn’t take yours off either,” Evan said cautiously.

Drew sucked in a deep breath. “No. I don’t.”

Evan peered up at him. “Do you still want to do this? If you don’t, you can crash on my couch. It’s pretty late. Or early, depending.”

“It’s neither, for me. I work the night shift, so.” Drew shrugged.

“Night shift?” Evan asked.

“I’m an ER resident at San Antonio Memorial. Ranger full-time before, but now I’m in the reserves. Till I finish my medical training.”

Evan smiled. “Wow. Attractive and really smart. I’d ask why a guy like you is single, but you work crazy hours, and this is Texas, so…”

“So you’re pretty attractive yourself,” Drew said softly. “Let’s do this.” And he leaned in, kissed Evan again.

Evan surrendered to the kiss eagerly. Knowing he outranked Drew pretty handily was another ridiculous turn-on, and Drew peeled Evan’s shirt off of him, let it drop to the floor beside them, and returned to his exploration of Evan’s chest and torso, his warm golden skin and thick muscles.

Drew firmly pushed all thoughts of Rick aside, and he nibbled on Evan’s ear before suggesting naked times in the bedroom. Evan concurred heartily, and Drew was so glad he’d said yes when Evan invited him home.

Drew said _yes_ a whole lot more that night. He also said a lot of _there_ and _harder_ and _more_ , and when they finally fell asleep, they were sated and exhausted, and Drew felt calm, level. Almost happy.

*

Working the night shift meant Drew’s sleep schedule was pretty messed up, so he woke after only a couple of hours, his body insisting that he was supposed to be up and alert. When Drew started to slide out of the bed, Evan stirred, but Drew hushed him gently, assuring him he wasn’t going anywhere.

Which was ridiculous. They’d had a good time. The smart thing for Drew would be to go back to his own place, wind down, and sleep before his next shift. Instead, he tugged on his boxers and padded into the den. Evan had no television, and Drew wasn’t about to borrow the guy’s laptop to look for more fights or something to watch, so he browsed Evan’s bookshelf some more, curious.

The book in Evan’s collection that looked the most well-worn and well-used was a copy of _The Art of War_. Drew was pretty sure it was required reading for field-grade officers, but Evan’s copy wasn’t the edition on the professional reading list. It was old, linen-bound. Drew plucked it off the shelf, handled it carefully.

It was a pretty bare-bones version, with Chinese on one side in lovely classical calligraphy, the translation on the other, and then commentary in the footnotes. It was illustrated, too, in black-and-white.

But the illustrations made no sense, were anachronistic and had no relation to the text: a young man with glasses and hair too long for regulations despite his military uniform, sitting beside a pack and reading a book. A man in Air Force BDUs peering through a telescope. A woman in Air Force dress blues holding a folded flag. A mountain of a dark-skinned man in BDU pants, a tank top, with a strange tattoo on his forehead, holding what looked like a spear. A man with wildly messy hair but wearing a flight suit and standing beside a chopper - a Pave Hawk? Another man not wearing a military uniform but some kind of windbreaker with a Canadian flag patch on one shoulder, holding a laptop on one arm while he gestured with his other hand.

And Drew realized - the man who was responsible for Evan’s taste for Molson’s. Evan had illustrated this book. He had a vivid and strange imagination - futuristic-looking fighter jets and battle cruisers, a massive spiky spaceship, weird dart-like spaceships, log-shaped space-ships - but the detail was incredible. Drew was pretty sure that if he ever saw these people in real life, he’d recognize them instantly. Evan had said he was an artist, but a lot of people said they were a lot of things. Evan was pretty talented.

In the back of the book was a list of names. Ritter. Stevens. Walker. Dickenson. Morrison. Graydon. Kemp. Lindstrom. Largent. Leonard. Vega. Billick. Coughlin. Reed.

Last names. Military friends, maybe? People Evan served with?

And then Drew found the piece of paper folded up in the very back, with neat black print on it. He unfolded it without thinking and saw, _Dear Mrs. Reed, I regret to inform you that your husband, Sergeant Jeffery Reed, was killed in action on -_

Drew folded the paper back up and tucked it into the book, closed the book, and hurried to put it back on the shelf. Dammit. He’d pried. That was too damn personal. That was a letter he’d never had to write. Evan had written letters like that for everyone on that list.

Drew knew that not everyone who’d served was a PTSD basket case like TC could be, but even level-headed guys like Evan had things they didn’t want to talk about, and Drew could respect that. He wandered into the kitchen and fixed himself a glass of water with the same glass he’d had the night before, drank it slowly and smiled to himself at the memories of what had happened in bed.

Then he wandered back to Evan’s room and stood in the doorway, watching him sleep.

Yeah, it was probably time for him to go home. He’d had a really good time, and he was grateful to Evan for that, but seeing him so peaceful and vulnerable, his dog tags gleaming in the hollow of his throat, was a little too close to the thing he missed, that was breaking his heart.

Drew started into the bedroom to hunt for his clothes. He’d lost his shirt in the den, but his pants, belt, and socks were definitely in the bedroom. He found his pants and fished his cell phone out of the pocket, turned on the flashlight.

Evan stirred, opened his eyes, smiled. “Hey. You getting ready to go?”

Drew felt like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar, but he nodded. “Yeah. Unless you want me to stay?” He wouldn’t say no to another round.

“I was going to cook us breakfast, if you like,” Evan said.

Drew hesitated. Breakfast the morning after was a considerate thing to do, and Evan was a considerate guy, but it wasn’t quite morning - it was barely four a.m. - and Drew wasn’t sure what would happen if he stayed longer.

“Did I tell you that my grandmother trained as a chef in Paris?” Evan slid out of bed, unashamed of his nudity (and he had nothing to be ashamed of, his ass was _fine_ ), and went over to the dresser to pull on a pair of clean boxer briefs. “I make my hollandaise from scratch.”

Drew’s stomach rumbling betrayed him.

Evan laughed. “Yeah. Sounds like you could use some food. C’mon. What do you like in your omelets?” He headed into the kitchen, and Drew trailed after him, thinking.

Evan pulled open the fridge, got out a carton of eggs, a loaf of bread, cheese, mushrooms. He had a bowl on the counter with onions and tomatoes in it, as well as some avocados. He turned on one burner and started a rasher of bacon.

“I’m not much for avocados and onions, but the rest looks great. Extra cheese,” Drew said finally.

Evan smiled and nodded. “You’re on. You want toast with yours? I have homemade San Francisco sourdough or homemade wheat, if that’s your thing.”

“Sourdough sounds good.” Drew leaned against the counter. “Anything I can do to help?”

Evan directed him to set two places at the kitchen bar while he cooked, including hollandaise sauce from scratch. The domesticity of making breakfast was one Drew hadn’t expected. Between his schedule and Rick’s, they’d usually gone out to eat, one or both of them too tired to cook. But Evan was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, moving around the kitchen with calm competence. But for the dog tags around his neck, he could have been a chef.

Drew had just poured orange juice for both of them when the omelets were done. Evan served them up with a deft flick of his wrist, and then they ate side-by-side, Evan inquiring casually into whether Drew had slept well, whether Drew was working that night.

It felt warm and familiar even though Evan was basically a stranger, and something in Drew ached. Against his better judgment, he gave Evan his phone number before he left (after they’d traded blowjobs in the kitchen while the dishes soaked).

And something in him was relieved when he woke before his shift and saw a little _good luck at work_ text message from an unfamiliar number with a Colorado area code.

*

If rebounding from Rick by having a bunch of semi-anonymous hook-ups was a bad idea, rebounding from Rick by starting some kind of semi-committed relationship with Evan had to be an even worse idea.

Only it didn’t feel like one. Drew just...stopped hooking up with other guys. Sometimes Evan took Drew to breakfast, but more often than not he cooked, either at his place or Drew’s, and then they had glorious sex before Drew fell asleep. Evan was there when Drew woke, to feed him dinner and give him a gourmet packed lunch - Drew’s lunchbox was the envy of the staff break room - and maybe trade him some good luck sexual favors before the night shift started. On Drew’s nights off, they watched the fights, or they watched action movies. Sometimes they hung out at a bar and played pool and wagered each other drinks on the outcomes of the games.

It was easy and comfortable, no pressure. They never talked about feelings (other than _Does that feel good?_ ) and they didn’t talk about the future or commitment. They just - were. Every day seemed like a spur of the moment thing, with a text message from one to the other - _Food?_ And _Sure!_ \- and then the two of them, in each other’s space, kissing and caressing, cooking and cleaning, talking and laughing.

It was almost too good to be true.

And then Drew took Krista to his Javier’s promotion ceremony and everything went to hell in a handcart. The video someone had taken of Drew doing what any soldier would do had gone viral, and news outlets had picked it up, and suddenly everyone was talking about Drew, bandying about words like _hero_ and _partner_ and there was a picture of him and Rick all over the television. How the hell had anyone found a picture of them?

“You have a boyfriend,” Evan said in a low voice. He was standing just outside the automatic doors when Drew emerged at the end of that damn shift.

Drew sighed, shook his head. “No. I mean - Rick and I fought. He walked out on me.”

Evan tilted his head. “But you’re still in love with him.”

“I - yeah, for the most part. I don’t even know how the media found out about him. This is ridiculous. I’m a very private person.” Drew scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lie to you.”

Evan studied Drew. “Am I lucky or unlucky the media didn’t find out about me?”

“I don’t know.” Drew sighed again. “Can we talk about this at home?”

“My place or yours?”

“Probably mine.”

Evan nodded. “All right. I’ll meet you there.”

They always drove in separate cars, because one of them always had somewhere to go after they hooked up.

Drew’s mind spun as he drove back to his apartment. How could he explain to Evan that he hadn’t told anyone about them, that he’d taken a huge risk telling anyone about himself and Rick, that it had all blown up in his face?

Evan parked out front like he always did, followed Drew in through the garage and into the kitchen. Usually he fixed himself a glass of water and settled in, made himself at home, but this time he hovered uncertainly next to the kitchen table, like a guest who wasn’t sure of his welcome.

Guilt twisted in Drew’s gut.

He fetched a glass from the cupboard, filled it with water from the filtered pitcher in the fridge, offered it to Evan.

Evan accepted it with a nod of thanks but didn’t drink.

“So,” Evan said. “Rick. Captain Rick Lincoln. Also a Ranger. How long have you been together?”

“We got together back in basic,” Drew said quietly.

Evan sucked in a deep breath. “That’s a long time.”

“But we’re not together anymore,” Drew said. “He walked out on me a while back.”

“How long ago is a while?”

“About a month.”

Evan nodded. “So I’m your rebound guy.”

Drew winced. “No. I mean - when I met you, I wasn’t looking to hook up. I’d had a string of stupid hook-ups and I was taking a break, but you were _you_ , and when you asked me to come home with you, I said yes. And I like you, I really do.”

“I like you too. A lot.” Evan scrubbed a hand over his face. “By the stars, this sounds so middle school. Next we’re going to be handing each other notes with check boxes.” He peered up at Drew. “You’ve been through a rough patch. There are things about your last relationship you probably need to process. I know I’m only here for a few months, but it could be longer, and I’ve done my twenty, so I have options. I’m willing to try for something more serious. I want to take a chance on you.”

A chance. Drew had taken a chance and it had backfired. Rick had taken so many chances on him before giving up. “I’m not sure I want you to take a chance on me.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized how insensitive he sounded, but it was too late to take them back. He couldn’t read Evan’s expression.

“Fair enough. Think on it. No rush. You know where to find me.” Evan set down the glass and headed for the door, and Drew let him go.

Drew stood there long after Evan was gone, staring at the untouched glass of water, and missed Rick fiercely, and missed Evan fiercely, and felt incredibly alone. He was tempted to call Krista, but - no.

Bed. He’d just go to bed.

But without Evan around, for cooking and kisses and cuddles, Drew’s house felt empty, and the food he scrounged up for himself (fat-free cream cheese on a wheat bagel) was tasteless.

Drew ended up in bed about an hour earlier than usual because he had nothing to do.

He scooped up the copy of _The Art of War_ he’d bought out of curiosity and that he’d been keeping on the nightstand, flipped on his bedside lamp, and paged through it. If he went up for major, he’d need to read it.

What had Evan seen in it, that he’d turned it into one of his most prized possessions? All the drawings of people and places and things, the men and women he’d served with, the list of people he’d lost. Why did he keep them in that book?

Drew settled in to read.

It was the perfect choice, because halfway through the first chapter’s commentary, he fell asleep.

*

When Drew made it onto shift, he kept an eye on Krista. He knew she was shaken up after what she’d been through. He was a soldier. Violence and bullets flying - he was trained to keep his head during all that. But Krista wasn’t. Doctors were supposed to heal people from violence, not be victims of it (although there was a certain violence inherent in medicine, cutting people open to put them back together again).

Drew managed to corner her between the influx of patients.

“Hey, you doing all right?”

Krista nodded, smiled, but her mouth was tight at the corners, her gaze a little bleak.

“Look, I know it seems like soldiers are unbothered by violence. It’s not true.”

Krista glanced across the ER to where TC was checking with a patient. “I know.”

Drew took a deep breath. “I know I’ve been kind of a jerk lately, but I’m here to listen. I promise.”

“Thanks.” Krista hesitated, like she might say more, but then Gwen came rushing in through the automatic doors with a gurney. A crying teenage boy ran along beside her.

Topher was on them in an instant, hollered for Krista.

She patted Drew’s arm and hurried to answer Topher’s summons. Before Drew could process that she had been sympathetic to him instead of the other way around, as it was supposed to be, TC was hollering for him, and so it began.

Adrenaline. Blood. Panic. Chaos. The constant churning of the mind: Problem? Solution. Complication? Rethink! Problem. Solution. Smiles, patting hands, reassurances. Protocol. But thinking. Changing. Evolving. Adapting. Drew’s world was gloves and scalpels and syringes, heart monitors battling and wailing over the din of voices.

When Drew stepped out of trauma bay three, he saw that teenage boy crying outside of trauma bay five. He was covered in blood.

“Hey, kid, are you all right?”

The boy nodded, shoulders shaking with sobs. “I’m fine. But - but you have to save him! He saved me. They tried to rob me and he saved me. Please.”

Drew put his hands on the boy’s shoulders, leaned down and caught his gaze. “What’s your name?”

“Kyle.” He had dark skin and bright eyes and glossy dark curls.

“Kyle, we’re doing everything we can for him. Have you been checked out?”

“I’m fine. The blood isn’t mine.” Kyle sniffled.

Drew went to lead him over to an empty trauma bay, but Topher popped out of bay five.

“Drew, can you call your buddies over at the base? This guy came in without a wallet and his phone is locked, and we need to find out his next of kin.”

Kyle said, “He gave them his wallet so they’d go away and stop bothering me.”

Drew nodded. “Sure, but - why the base?”

Topher’s expression was grim as he held up bloodied dog tags on a ball chain. He pressed them into Drew’s hand, then turned and hurried back to Krista when she called his name.

Drew was already fishing his cell phone out of his pocket as he read the tags.

Lorne, Evan B.

Drew’s body went cold. He burst into the trauma bay. “Evan!”

Evan was covered in blood, missing one shoe. His shirt was cut open and Krista had paddles on his chest, shouting,

“Clear!”

Evan’s body jolted with the charge, and Drew watched the heart monitor closely.

“We’ve got sinus rhythm,” Krista said.

Relief threaded through the icy ball of terror that had settled into Drew’s core. He waded into the fray.

“Evan, hey, I’m here.” He reached out, grasped Evan’s hand in his own. To Topher, he said, “What happened?”

“You know this guy?” Topher asked.

Drew nodded. “Yeah. Lieutenant Colonel Evan Lorne. Air Force. Have TC call it in. I’m not leaving him.”

“We have to get him to the OR, fast,” Krista said. “I paged Dr. Clemens.”

Evan was pale beneath all the blood. Kenny was keeping pressure on his abdomen, because the patch job was a stopgap at best.

“Evan, can you hear me?” Drew asked. “We’re gonna take care of you, all right? This is the best ER in all of San Antonio. Krista and Topher are the best. We’ve got you.”

“Drew.” Evan’s voice was raspy, weak. “Drew, I lied. I’m sorry.”

“Lied about what?” Drew asked reflexively, then shook his head. “No, don’t worry, just hold on. You have to fight, all right? To get through this. To get better.” He stayed with the team as they wheeled Evan toward the OR.

“I’m sorry, I lied, I was afraid,” Evan stuttered. “Is Kyle okay?”

“Kyle’s okay,” Drew said even though he wasn’t sure, because he hadn’t checked the kid over.

“Kyle’s fine,” Krista said. “I checked him. You did great. You saved him. You were so brave.” She smiled at Evan, then turned and hollered for Scott.

Evan shook his head. “No. I was scared. I’m sorry. I said I like you. I lied.”

Drew blinked. “You don’t like me?”

“Love you,” Evan whispered, and his eyes fluttered closed.

Drew’s pulse stuttered.

Topher swore. “He’s crashing! Get him into the OR now. Krista, scrub up.”

Krista nodded and dashed into the scrub room.

Drew squeezed Evan’s hand. “No, hey, Evan, stay with us.”

Topher batted Drew aside, started chest compressions.

Drew stared at the tableau, horrified. Evan was pale, wasn’t breathing, head lolling limply. Blue eyes closed. No dimpled smile. Soft hair matted with blood. Evan was _dying_. Drew had seen too many men and women die, but this was _Evan_. He couldn’t die, Drew wouldn’t let him, they had to _save him_ -

“Dr. Alister! I said _bag him_.” Topher’s voice penetrated Drew’s daze.

Drew jolted back into action, got the mask fitted over Evan’s nose and mouth, started pumping air into his lungs, but then Scott arrived. Topher gave him the rundown in neat, clinical medical terms, but Drew heard the translation, the terrible truth: _stabbed in the gut_ and _fading fast_.

“Dr. Alister.” Scott gripped Drew’s shoulder so hard it almost hurt. “I’ve got it from here.”

Drew couldn’t stop. Evan had to live.

Topher grabbed Drew’s wrists, and a nurse took over the bag. Topher steered Drew aside.

“Hey, what’s going on? How well do you know my patient?”

Drew was hyperventilating. He was losing his cool. Dammit. No. He had - he had patients of his own.

Topher shook him. “Drew, talk to me. Was that one of your hook-ups? What the hell were you thinking, helping me treat him? You know the rules.”

 _I was thinking I couldn’t let him die_. Drew blinked at Topher, uncomprehending. That was Evan in there. Of course he’d saved some random kid. Of course he was dying. Of course he loved Drew.

Topher sighed. “Gimme those dog tags. Hey, Michael, I need your help.”

Michael hurried over. “What’s up?”

Drew handed him Evan’s dog tags.

“Call down to the base,” Topher said. “Name-drop Drew. Get us a rush on next-of-kin for Lieutenant Colonel Evan Lorne, USAF. He’s in the OR now. Got stabbed saving a kid from a mugging.”

Michael nodded. “Sure thing. You okay, Drew?”

“Drew needs some coffee,” Topher said, which wasn’t true. Drew needed to be in the OR with Scott and Krista, needed to know how Evan was doing.

Michael peered at Drew. “All right. C’mon, Drew.” He towed Drew over to the desk. “What’s the number for the base?”

Drew told him. He only half-heard Michael as he talked his way through the switchboard, staring at the dog tags curled on the desk beside the phone.

Kenny brought them Evan’s cellphone, smeared with blood, screen cracked.

Drew cleaned it off mechanically. Evan had never been one of those guys who was always facedown in his phone. He barely cared about the thing, but he had to be available for work. He always turned it on silent and set it aside when it was just the two of them.

Michael sighed. “Yes, I’ll hold.”

And then the cellphone began to ring.

 _Mom_ flashed on the screen.

Drew stared.

“Hey, aren’t you going to answer that?” Michael nodded at the cellphone.

Drew studied the name and number. California area code. Picture of a woman who looked like Evan - same blue eyes and thick dark hair and dimpled smile.

Michael tucked the phone receiver against his shoulder and reached for the cellphone, but Drew picked it up. Swiped to answer.

“Hey, baby boy.”

Evan’s mother had a warm and bubbly voice.

“Sorry it took me so long to call you back,” she continued. “Been crazy in the community, shuttling people back and forth to participate in those protest marches. Your sister nearly got arrested. You can call her and gloat again. But enough about us! You were going to tell me all about your cute little Texas beau. Drew, isn’t it? How are things going with him?”

Drew’s throat closed.

“Evan? Honey? Is the signal bad again? Do I need to hike up the road past Aunt Tilly’s?”

Drew cleared his throat. “Ma’am, I apologize. I’m Dr. Alister at San Antonio Memorial Hospital. Your son -”

“Evan? What happened?”

Drew took a deep breath. “There was a mugging. Your son stepped in to defend the victim, a teenaged boy.”

“Oh, he was always too brave and foolhardy for his own good, let alone mine. Is he all right?”

“He’s in surgery right now, ma’am,” Drew said. “He’s with the best trauma surgeon we’ve got.”

“Surgery? How bad was it?”

Drew swallowed. “He’s in critical condition, but -”

Someone tapped him on the shoulder.

Drew turned.

Scott stood there, expression grim.

Drew’s head spun.

“Critical condition but...?” Mrs. Lorne pressed.

“Let me hand you off to his surgeon, ma’am.” Drew couldn’t do it, couldn’t tell her. He pressed the cellphone into Scott’s hands. He had to get out of there. He -

Jordan hollered for him. He had to get to work.

He was finishing up with his seventh patient - asshole who’d been hit in the face with a broken bottle after he punched his girlfriend; she’d been defending herself - when he saw them.

Colonel John Sheppard. Dr. Rodney McKay. Striding into the ER, John in desert BDUs, Rodney in slacks and the windbreaker with the Canadian flag patch on one shoulder.

Military personnel were a common enough sight in the ER, so no one else paid them heed, but Drew watched them head to the desk to talk to Molly.

“I’m Colonel John Sheppard.” He showed her his military ID. “I was informed that my second-in-command Lieutenant Colonel Evan Lorne was brought in here after an injury sustained in a mugging. I’m here to identify and claim his body.”

How had they gotten here so quickly?

Molly nodded. “Of course, Colonel. Someone will show you to the morgue shortly.”

John nodded tightly and stepped away from the desk. Rodney moved with him. They moved like a unit, a team, even though Rodney was a civilian and a scientist and the chief science officer for the classified research outpost Evan was usually at.

Drew stripped off his gloves, stepped away from the trauma bay and back to the desk where Michael was working on paperwork.

“You still have those dog tags?” Drew asked in a low voice.

Michael nodded, reached into the pocket of his scrubs. “Yeah. And the cellphone. Why?”

“Evan’s CO is here.”

Michael peered past Drew, scanned the waiting room. “You want me to do this?”

“I got this.”

“You sure? You were - out of it. Earlier.”

Drew nodded. He had no idea how much Michael knew, what kind of gossip had spread. But he had to be the one to do this. He hadn’t been able to face Evan’s mother, but he could face Evan’s comrades-in-arms. “Yeah, I got it.” He accepted the tags and phone from Michael, then stepped into the waiting room.

“ - Can’t believe this,” Rodney was saying, and Drew had heard that incredulous intonation before, from Evan’s impressions. “Of all the things he’s survived - _we’ve_ survived out there - and he gets killed by a mugger. On Earth. In Texas.”

“You should know by now,” John said, voice low, “that the universe isn’t fair.”

Drew cleared his throat. “Colonel Sheppard?”

John straightened up. “Doctor?”

“These were all Evan had on him besides his clothes.” Drew held out the tags and the phone.

John accepted the dog tags reverently, curled his fist around them for a moment before pocketing them with the cell phone. “Thanks, Doc.”

Drew nodded. He started to turn away, but Rodney said, “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

Had Evan told them about him? The base they were on was, apparently, a lot more open-minded than a lot of postings. They even had an all-gay squadron of Marines, nicknamed the Theban Band.

Drew shook his head, but John said, “From the news. That Ranger, who responded to the shooting at the promotion ceremony.”

Drew nodded tightly. “Yes.”

John nudged Rodney. “They’re comparing him to Lorne, for saving that kid from the mugging.”

“Just doing what any soldier would have done,” Drew said, his rote response, but he hadn’t even thought of that irritating news story since Topher had handed him Evan’s tags.

“Or airman,” John said, and Drew nodded again.

John patted his pocket where the phone and tags were. “Thanks, Doc. Captain.”

“Someone will be with you soon, I promise,” Drew said.

Michael arrived. “Colonel Sheppard, you and your friend -”

“Dr. Rodney McKay,” Drew said.

“Not a medical doctor,” Rodney said hastily.

Michael nodded respectfully. “Of course. Colonel Sheppard, you and Dr. McKay can come see Evan.”

John and Rodney rose up, followed him. Drew waved a brief farewell and then ducked outside. He rounded the corner from the ambulance bay and sank against the wall, sucking in a deep breath.

He needed fresh air. He needed to get away, but he couldn’t, he was still on shift. No one knew about him and Evan, and he couldn’t tell them now. How would he explain it? Drew buried his face in his hands.

“Drew?”

He lifted his head, not sure he’d heard right. He knew that voice.

“Rick?”

Rick was standing in front of him. Still had his bag slung over his shoulder, the one he’d packed before he’d left. Did this mean he was back?

Rick. Was back. Rick, who was everything Drew had ever wanted, who was warm and kind and loving.

Just like Evan, who was _dead_.

Drew snarled and hurled a fist at the wall.

Rick lunged, caught his wrist. “Whoa, hey! Not exactly the reception I was expecting.”

Drew yanked himself free, scrubbed a hand over his face. “It’s been a shitty night. Lost a patient.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Rick reached out to reel Drew into a hug, but Drew shrugged him off.

“Don’t. Not right now.”

“Right now?” Rick asked softly. “Or ever?”

Drew shook his head. He really couldn’t handle this. “I -”

“I needed to get my head on straight. Needed time. But I’m back now.” Rick kept his voice low and soothing. “I saw you on the news, and I realized - you can be damn brave in the face of mortal peril. But when it comes to what’s going on inside your head, how you feel - you still have one foot in the closet. I need more than that. I want you, but I want _all_ of you.”

Drew felt himself start to shake. “Rick -”

“We can sit together at the movies and at restaurants. You can hold my hand. _We_ can -”

“Please, Rick, I can’t.” A band of steel was tightening around Drew’s lungs. He was panicking.

Rick bit his lip. “Can’t, or won’t?”

“Not right now. Not - not never. But -” Drew swiped a trembling hand over his face.

Rick stepped closer to him. “This is a bad time, isn’t it? With your patient and all.”

“Yeah. We can talk later.” Drew nodded, blinked rapidly. “I’m glad you’re back. I really am.” He stepped in, pulled Rick into a brief, friendly hug. If he hung on any longer he’d break, and he couldn’t do that in front of Rick. Not over Evan. Not over everything. He pulled back.

Rick studied him warily, gaze searching, and Drew looked away to avoid him.

John and Rodney stepped out of the ER. John headed for an ambulance idling at the edge of the bay. It had military plates. Rodney hung back, pale and fretting. He spotted Drew, and Drew waved briefly.

And then Rodney’s eyes went wide. “I _knew_ I recognized you from somewhere. Not the news. You - you’re Lorne’s Texas boy. He mentioned maybe leaving the project and John said he better have a damn good reason and he showed us a picture. Of you.”

Rick raised his eyebrows, wheeled around to look at Rodney, who was coming closer.

“The news said you had a different boyfriend, though,” Rodney continued, musing aloud more than anything. “Another Army Ranger or something fancy. Not that Lorne wasn’t fancy. Damned cocky flyboys. Think they’re immortal.”

Rick looked at Drew, then at Rodney, then back at Drew. “A different boyfriend? Drew, did you - did you _move on?_ ” He didn’t sound angry. He sounded hurt.

Drew took a shaky breath. “You were the one who walked out on me, all right?”

Rick blinked rapidly. “I said I needed to clear my head. I just needed some time and space.”

Rodney’s eyes went even wider. He cast a wild look at Rick and backpedaled rapidly. “Oh. This is him. The other boyfriend. I - I better go. Leave you two to talk. Um - John? Do you need my help with - with anything?”

“Did you love him?” Rick’s voice was so small.

 _Fuck_. Drew shook his head. “No. I didn’t. I still love you.”

“Then why?”

“I hooked up with a lot of guys. I’m not proud of it. I wasn’t even looking to hook up the night I met Evan.”

“So he was just a random hook-up?” Rick looked torn between being hopeful and being disgusted.

“At first, but - he loved me. He died telling me he loved me, all right?” The words came pouring out before Drew could stop them, words instead of tears. Never tears. “He was a good man, and he was good to me.”

Rick looked crushed.

Something in Drew’s chest twisted. “He deserved better than he got. He deserved a man who loved him back, deserved to die of old age, in his sleep with his loved ones surrounding him. Instead he died tonight because some asshole with a knife decided to try to jack a teenage boy. He died in a hospital far from home, surrounded by strangers, alone because he loved me and I’m still in love with you.”

“Why?” Rick asked.

“Because I’m lost without you! Because you’re the other half of me and you tore me apart when you left.” Drew squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t breathe. All he could do was replay the memory of Evan’s last words.

_Love you._

“I’m sorry,” Rick said.

Drew bit back a sob. “So am I.” His phone buzzed. He checked it. Jordan. “I have to go. We’ll talk later, all right? I promise. I just - I have to go.” He stepped around Rick and headed back into the ER.

Topher, Jordan, and Michael were all waiting for him.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Jordan asked. “About Evan.”

“I didn’t even realize it was him at first.” Drew kept his voice low. “Not till Topher gave me his tags.”

“Go home,” Topher said.

Drew started to protest, and Jordan said, “Rick, take him home.”

Rick put a tentative hand on Drew’s shoulder. “Come on.”

Drew let himself be steered into the locker room to change, be steered out to Rick’s truck. The drive home was a blur. One moment Drew was buckling his seatbelt, the next Rick was parking in the driveway, like it was the end of any other shift a lifetime ago, before Rick left, before Evan.

Drew unbuckled himself and eased out of the truck, followed Rick into the house. The mere thought of food made his stomach turn, so he drained a glass of water - carefully not using one of the glasses Evan had always used - and he let Rick undress him and lead him to bed.

Drew curled up in Rick’s arms, tucked under his chin and listened to his heart and was so fucking relieved Rick was back, Rick was safe, Rick was _alive_ , and he felt sick with guilt, because Evan was dead.

It seemed like forever before Drew fell asleep, tumbling into a nightmare of flashing knives, blood, and the persistent whine of a flatline.

*

_Three months later._

Sometimes Drew couldn’t believe his life was actually his. Waking up beside Rick every day, being able to kiss him good morning, being able to talk about him to Krista and Kenny and Michael - it was all so perfect. Sure the night shift continued to be crazy, and Michael was earning his stripes as a top prankster, but life was good. Rick loved his job, was good at it. Drew still loved his job, and he was pretty sure he was good at it, being chief resident and all.

Rick and Drew were going to get married. All those years of hiding and being ashamed, and now they were going to declare their love, publicly, on record, have a huge party to celebrate it and everything.

Krista had appointed herself their official wedding planner, as apparently neither Drew nor Rick had inherited the style genes along with the gay genes. Drew was content to look at flowers and tuxes and taste cakes and ask Rick what he wanted for their special day, because the special day wasn’t the big day, it was just the first day.

“Hey,” Rick said when Drew stepped into the kitchen after the end of another night shift. “Package came for you. Anything fun?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Drew shrugged off his jacket, hung it on the peg beside the back door, tossed his wallet and keys into the basket on the counter next to the fridge. “I don’t remember ordering anything.”

Rick handed him the brown wrapped package, kissed him hello. “Well, enjoy.”

“Thanks. And hello. You’re a sight for sore eyes.” Drew smiled and kissed him back. Then he looked down at the package. Brown wrapping paper over a box that was light in his hands but solid. Return address but no return name, address handwritten. Who did he know in California?

He fished his knife out of his pocket, sliced through the tape line, pushed the brown paper aside. Someone had recycled a box for saltine crackers as packaging. There was wadded up newspaper inside as more packing material. Drew pawed it aside and reached into the box.

Someone had sent him a book.

It was old, linen-bound, the back cover blank but for a gold embossed publisher’s mark. Drew turned it over, read the title.

_The Art of War._

Evan’s copy, the illustrated one.

Rick raised his eyebrows. “You already have a copy of that. Unless you’re starting a collection?”

“No,” Drew said. “This belonged to Evan.”

“Oh.” Rick’s expression turned uncertain. “Did he leave it to you in his will or something?”

“I don’t know. There’s no note.” Drew remembered that Evan had grown up in California, that his family still lived out there. One of his relatives must have sent it to Drew. He opened it to the first page, saw the old, fading inscription in fountain pen ink and old-fashioned cursive, from Everett to Frank, and beneath it in newer ink and slopy, masculine handwriting, from Mitchell to Lorne.

“It’s an old-school version,” Rick offered.

Drew hadn’t gone through it page by page last time, had only skimmed through and paused at certain drawings, but this time he started at the beginning.

Rick stepped up behind him to read over his shoulder. “Those are pretty cool drawings. Whoever did them was good.”

“Evan,” Drew said quietly. “His mother was an art teacher. He drew and painted in his spare time.”

This time around, Drew recognized Evan’s mother, grandmother, sister, nephew, and niece, saw the family resemblance in all of them. He recognized John and Rodney, of course. He remembered the cool sci-fi drawings, the space ships and fighter jets. There were more women in the book than he remembered from last time - a pretty woman with dark wavy hair and a narrow nose; a dark-skinned woman dancing with a pair of batons; a little Japanese woman with big glasses that made her look owlish.

When Drew found the list of names of the fallen, he was afraid he’d see Evan’s name at the end of it, but it wasn’t there, and the draft letter to Reed’s widow was gone.

There were portraits in the last blank pages of the book, each with dates beneath them. The first was a man, young, in his twenties, in Air Force officer blues. Cam. The second was a man, in his thirties, wearing what looked like BDUs with a strange patch on the shoulder. Jonas. The third was a woman wearing the same kind of jacket Rodney wore in his picture, only she had an American flag patch on her shoulder. Kate. The fourth was a man with dreadlocks, long-lashed dark eyes, and some kind of tribal tattoo on the side of his neck. Ronon.

Judging by the dates underneath - month and year, dashes between them, like on a headstone - Cam was the most popular, with five sets of dates spanning almost two decades. Jonas had barely a year. Kate had one set of dates that spanned three years. Ronon had one set of dates for only a year and a half.

What for? Had they died? Perhaps they’d served together. The names on Evan’s list of people for whom he’d had to write condolence letters - none of them had first names. Was this a gallery of the people Evan had served with, commanded, and lost?

Drew flipped further and saw he had reached the last page. He wasn’t sure what to think when he saw a portrait of himself. There was only one date written beneath his name, though, a single date and a dash.

The month and year they’d met.

“What is it?” Rick asked. “Are you all right?”

Drew smoothed a fingertip over his portrait, tentative, as if the ink were still fresh, might smear. Evan had drawn him in a white lab coat, stethoscope hanging around his neck, with the faintest hint of an army uniform shirt beneath the coat. Drew had never worn that outfit around him. Evan must have drawn it from his imagination.

“I’m fine,” Drew said, and he was. He flipped back to the first portrait, of Cam, and realized - these must have been the dates he and Evan were together. On and off, spanning most of Evan’s military career. Drew turned back to his own portrait, traced the little dash after the single date beneath his name.

On a headstone, the dash represented an entire life lived, from birth to death.

Here the dashes represented a relationship, a love, two lives intertwined and then separated.

Evan had died believing he and Drew were still together.

“That’s really romantic,” Rick said softly.

Drew nodded, closed the book, set it aside. He’d send a thank-you card to the return address. There were so many other people who deserved to possess the book more than he did - John or Rodney or any one of the people whose portraits preceded Drew’s. Whatever Evan had told his family, they’d decided Drew got to keep a portion of Evan’s legacy, and he was honored.

He knew Evan had had a distinguished military career, was a talented pilot, a skilled commander, and beloved of the men and women he’d served. Those who’d known him well probably knew about his art. Drew was one of the few trusted to keep it and appreciate it.

“He was a good man.” Drew swallowed hard, attempted a smile.

Rick pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “And he was good to you. I’m glad. I hurt you, and you didn’t deserve that, and I’m glad he was there for you when I couldn’t be.”

“You’re here now,” Drew said. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He could finally admit that, without guilt. He was here with Rick, and Evan was gone.

“Love you,” Rick whispered.

“Love you too.” Drew tugged Rick into his arms and held him, kissed him, and let Rick’s kisses turn the shadows in his heart into light.

_Goodbye, Evan._


End file.
